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Dead and Gone/Issue 1
Tap. Tap. Tap. A single silent figure looms around the corner of the modest wooden desk. His eyes, impatient but otherwise blank, are transfixed on the the woman at the desk. Her eyes do not meet his annoyed stare, instead focusing on a few pieces of paper scattered across the oaken frontier of her desk. Tapping her fingers, she takes a deep breath. "What is it?" the formerly silent figure lights up a smoke, "Come on, Pauline, cut the shit and tell me what you need." "It's been about a month since we've had any contact with the farming project. We've got enough food for now, but the main settlement is going to want answers." The man takes a drag, "You know they're probably dead. Or at least, they better be. We've always been very strict with the two week deliveries." "Well, Roland," the woman smiles, "Your job is to go find out where that line was crossed. If they're dead, I want bodies to show for it. You may answer to me, but I still answer to someone myself. Don't screw me on this," the woman's fingers cease their tapping, as her eyes blast Roland with a particularly sub-zero stare, "I've gotten word from both the western and northern outposts that there's been a lot of walker activity in their territory lately. They've even had a few...incidents." "Maybe they need to get their shit together," Roland finishes his cigarette, putting it out on one of Pauline's papers, "Sorry, hope that wasn't important," he offers up an unfaltering smile in the face of her gusts of frozen hatred, "As I was saying, maybe they need to get their shit together. We've got thirty-eight fine men and women here, and that number been pretty fucking consistent since we came and built this outpost." Pauline's look his long and hard, before finally cracking into a spiteful smile, "Well, eight of those thirty-eight are now missing. If you want to keep that record you're so proud of, why don't you go grab your big boy boots and march down to that farm and figure something out?" She flicks the cigarette butt away from her desk, and glances at the burned sheet of paper, "Oh, this is nothing too important. You just burned away your ration schedule for the next week," her smile melts sickly sweet, "That's okay. I can just pencil a new number in...when you get back." His machismo effectively neutered, Roland sighs, "I'll need seven of our people to accompany me on this little...excursion." Sugary smile still splattered wide across her lips, Pauline kneads her hands together softly, "You can take five. That will be all, Roland." Solemn. Unoccupied. Picturesque. The youthful scout drinks in the view of the unnattended fields of decaying sunflowers and occasional rotting pumpkin husk. The placidity of an abandoned homestead is both nostalgic and eerie, the young man thinks to himself as his comrades finish their sweep of the farm. The mission was simple; the outpost they call home hadn't heard from their farming community in a little under a month. With that, the he and five others were tasked with finding out what exactly was keeping them from maintaining weekly contact; be it walkers, bandits, or good ol' fashioned laziness. Sighing lightly and with a nod of the head, he grunts, "Carter, how'd you get stuck with this shit...?" Carter peers across the small threshhold of dead vegetation and uprooted carrots. Probably some wild hogs or something, he considers to himself. "All clear over here, man!" another young man calls out, perhaps a little too loudly, "Carter, you good?" "Harrison, you fucking idiot. If I have to tell you one more time to keep your voice down, I'll fucking eat your brains and save the walkers the trouble," Roland swats his hand out to silence the fool, "What's the matter, boy?" The elder tilts his head up at Harrison with unapologetic contempt, "Sleep through the last couple years?" Harrison shakes his head erratically for a few moments before offering an anxious smile, "Sorry, Roland. Just kinda slipped up, you know?" "Just kinda fucked up," Roland's eyes cut down the younger man and his whispers cut through the humid silence. The weathered and jaded sage scans the property. Nothing. Not one single body, living or otherwise. Wiping the sweat from his reddened, cracked brow, Roland waves the rest of the squad over. It had been a full month since the harvesting group reported in with the outpost. It wasn't unusual to have a week without any correspondence, but a month? Something definitely wasn't kosher. At least, that's what the big boss had to say. "Hey," a stout, short-haired woman taps Roland's shoulder, "Elena and I finished the sweep of downstairs. Jackson should just about have upstairs wrapped up, too. It's weird. Not a single sign of anyone." "Thanks, Sharon," Roland nods, "Go grab Harrison and get his stupid ass in the house. I don't want that low-watt on watch until I had a word with him; we'll head inside and unpack for the night. Tell Carter to saddle up for first watch." "Right," Sharon cocks her head once in compliance, and retreats to the rolling patches of deceased leaves and rotting crops. Slipping Carter a quick smirk, she gestures with her head back over to Roland, "Big Daddy's elected you as tonight's first watch." "Righteous," Carter musters a half-hearted fist pump, "With Harrison still being pretty green, I should have known that was coming." "Speaking of green...take a look at all this shit, would ya?" Sharon lifts up her foot and inspects the remains of some decaying strawberries now firmly ground into the treads of her boot, "It's a real shame this all had to go to waste." The dead, maroon orbs plaster the ground; a graveyard of havests lost. Carter nods, "Yeah, Brock's strawberries are always top shelf," Smiling weakly and shifting his rifle over his shoulder, Carter's momentarily wave of relaxation crests, pulling out the pessimisstic fear that this mission was a complete waste. Shifting his eyes back to Sharon, he murmurs, "Just between the two of us...do you think Brock--any of them--are still alive?" Without hesitation, the stout scout drops her eyes, "Not a God damn chance." She looks back up to her partner's gaze, and the two part ways in silence. Slinking back towards the farmhouse, Sharon peers around for her teammates as Carter settles into the barn for the night. As she nears the ancient, nearly paintless front door, it swings open wide. "Okay, check this out," the stoic, mountainous figure of Jackson more than fills the door frame. Leading her into the country castle, Jackson booms, "I did a sweep of the top floor rooms...I could see from the windows that there's quite a few walker corpses scattered around back, and even a fire pit all set up to burn 'em. Thing is, the inside looks totally undisturbed. Whatever happened to Gwen, Brock, and all them others...," He pauses and swipes a heavy hand over the top of his balding head, "It ain't like a gang'a those things just swept through and ate everyone." "Think it was people?" Harrison pokes his shaggy head around the corner, "'Cuz I mean, what's if they're still around? You know, like they're figuring someone was gonna come check this place out." A sultry figure, alluring even without the gallons of make up she wore in the years prior, voices her unquestioning doubt, "I really don't think it's a sting," she coos, "I mean, how many safe-zones are running farms on the side? Beyond that, how many safe-zones are there, even?" "We can't be the only one, Elena," Sharon shrugs her stubby arms, "It might have been a raid." "Let's say there's a million people left in the world," Elena crosses her arms, her machete folded straight down against her side, "That's a million people spread out over the entire planet. There were what, three hundred million in this country before? I'd drive for an hour, two hours, sometimes even three, and see no one. And that's just here. Think of the whole fucking world." "Alright, alright, settle down, kids," Roland flicks his lighter and takes a drag from his cigarette, "Now," the elder softly packs the lighter back into his shirt pocket and savors the smokey gust for a moment, "I want everyone to be clear on what we're doing here. Our fine friends on the farm? Well, hopefully as you've deduced yourselves, they're fucking dead. Maybe their bodies weren't packaged and waiting here for us to find, but sure as shit they're dead." Taking another puff, Roland scans the eyes of his companions, "Good. I knew you weren't stupid. Now, Pauline and the masses back at the post are going to want some kind of explanation. I'm thinking...something along the lines of, how shall we say...a cut and run." "So, what, we don't even look?" Harrison shifts uncomfortably in his seat, "I mean, they're with us. They're part of the group. For Christ's sake, Brock's the one who found Carter and brought him to the outpost in the first place. We can't just--" "Hey!" Roland jolts to life, stamping his cigarette out on the table inches from Harrison's clenched fist, "Put that shit out of your mind!" Eyes ablaze with contempt, the elder settles back into his sagely demeanor, complete with fresh cigarette, "I don't like it. It's going to keep me up at night. But you know what? That's fucking life, now, boy. Maybe they are alive. Maybe they're just down the road, sippin' tea and patting each other on the back for giving us the slip. It makes no fucking difference. We're not wasting time, energy, and possibly more of us when they're either hitting the road or dearly departed." "Yeah, I guess...," Harrison nods, almost imperceptibly, his eyes fall to the floor like bricks. Roland smiles and produces an eerie, almost ghostly chuckle, "You guess. That's sweet. Well, I guess you'd better go take Carter a piss bottle before I knock some hard facts upside your head," the elder sneers and tosses Harrison an empty bottle, "Here. Get goin'." The sun now set, the cool night air brushes into Harrison's face as he carefully shuts the front door. Gripping the plastic bottle just firmly enough to bow in the sides, the youth trudges towards the barn where his comrade lay in waiting. Looking up, even with the aid of his flashlight, Harrison spies nothing in the top story barn window. Frowning and glancing down at the bottle again, he mutters, "Carter, maaan, you better not be taking a shit or something. I ain't bringing you another bottle." Gripping the handle of the barn door, another brisk wind slams the thin blue flannel shirt protecting his core. Harrison shutters a second, grips his chest, and proceeds into the wooden castle before him. Waving the light around, blankly examining the cornucopia of hazardous rural equipment, he makes no visual of his compadre. Looking up, he offers a break from the silence to the darkened shack, "Carter. Gotcha a bottle to piss in. Just come get it, okay?" The darkness responds with only a return to the coolly tinged silence with which it had greeted the intruder. Murmurring a 'God damn it' or two, the lone delivery boy ascends the wooden steps to the second floor. His flashlight welded down into his palm by sticky sweat, Harrison sets forth one last offering to the mighty silence, "Carter...?" Reaching the top of the steps and standing on equal footing with the pine trees in the distance, Harrison's pale skin flushes as he spies his comrade huddled in the corner of the window, rifle clamped tightly in place. Carter remains frozen in place, peering through the scope with unmoving determination. Without turning to acknowledge his friend, Carter speaks. "Get down. Four people just went around to the back of the house." Category:Uncategorized